BROOK TROUT 



late afternoon light is over all as he again stops, and 

 looks, and listens. 



To his right is a high knoll, mottled with moss- 

 growths, its base sandalled with the white star-points 

 of wild strawberry blooms, and the tiny pale-blue 

 flowers of forget-me-nots. Beyond, is the brown, far- 

 spreading carpet of the forest, splashed by blue of vio- 

 lets, white of lilies, yellow of daffodils ! The whole 

 left bank is a mass of dark wintergreen growth, edged 

 at the water with mint and cress. Yonder is a little 

 slope exquisite with the pale pink flowers of the anem- 

 one. Buds of wild honeysuckle are opening down 

 there on the little island. Blossoms of laurel, rhodo- 

 dendron, trailing arbutus! Forest odors, bird-notes, 

 whispering stream, murmuring foliage! Mottled 

 patches of sunlight and shadow dance under the great 

 trees where, last night, the strident calls of the whip- 

 poorwills were ringing. A mother partridge is trying 

 to coax her brood of chicks across that log over the 

 stream ! Beautiful ! No wonder the gray-haired an- 

 gler loves it all. " The Infinite Night with her solemn 

 aspects, Day, and the sweet approach of Even and 

 Morn, are full of meaning for him. He loves the 

 green Earth with her streams and forests, her flowery 

 leas and eternal skies — loves her with a sort of passion 

 In all her vicissitudes of light and shade : his spirit 

 revels In her grandeur and charms — expands like the 

 breeze over wood and lawn, over glade and dlngle» 



stealing and giving odors. Nature is to him no longer 



176 



